


when did you change? (wendy, you've aged)

by trashyeggroll



Category: Stumptown (TV)
Genre: Dex Kissing Women Kudos if You Agree, F/F, Quickies, Smut, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Vaginal Fingering, Vanilla, thigh riding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-08
Updated: 2019-11-08
Packaged: 2021-01-25 16:10:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,678
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21359014
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/trashyeggroll/pseuds/trashyeggroll
Summary: "In the morning, Dex tells herself, she’ll be in a better state of mind to remember why this is a bad idea. Amidst the memory of the way Fiona tastes on her tongue, she’ll remember why she forged a different path."akaAll it took was some bedroom eyes and a few notes on a piano. My take on the 01x06 Missing Scene between Dex and Fiona.
Relationships: Dex Parios/Fiona X
Comments: 12
Kudos: 107





	when did you change? (wendy, you've aged)

**Author's Note:**

> I couldn't help myself. I just couldn't. Got mixed polling results on whether to include the musician/singer puns and metaphors in this, but I had to shoot my shot and see how it goes.
> 
> Title from **Same Drugs** by Chance The Rapper
> 
> _We don't do the, we don't do the same drugs, do the same drugs no more_  
_When did you change?_  
_Wendy, you've aged_  
_I thought you'd never grow up_  
_I thought you'd never_

It’s like riding a bike.

Perhaps that’s a crude enough way to put it as to be called  _ unkind. _

But when Fiona swings a long, pale leg over Dex’s lap, the newly-minted private investigator doesn’t hesitate; her muscles practically respond of their own accord, from memory. She takes hold of the singer’s hips and squeezes, choking back a groan at the answering pull in her lower body. She can feel the heat from between Fiona’s legs pressing against her stomach, and the syrupy scent of Fiona’s perfume recalls so many nights like this, in seedy motels, venue bathrooms, and the backs of rickety vans. Fiona sighs against her lips as her hands hold Dex’s face tight, like she’s afraid the PI will change her mind again. That’s not entirely out of the question, admittedly. This is, objectively speaking, a very bad idea. 

Fiona had always been… forthright. Dex shouldn’t have been surprised to hear her own name over the speakers at the concert. She shouldn’t have been surprised Fiona asked after her after making eyes at the show. She shouldn’t have been surprised when the singer buttered her up with that ethereal voice, and then leaned over to capture her lips at the piano. 

The night they’d met, at some dive whose appeal was exclusively that they were open later than most, Dex had been at the bottom of a bottle of cheap vodka, heedless of the vocalist performing on the bar’s small stage… until the bottle blonde with the bright red lipstick had finished her set and sat a couple stools to Dex’s left. A few minutes of making eyes at each other, much like the other night, and then the veteran was sliding closer, with intent. It seemed like introductions had barely finished before she was three knuckles deep, sweaty and panting as she pinned Fiona against the rough brick in the alley behind the bar. The rest of their short relationship had been just as poorly planned and explosively  _ hot _ as that first night. 

A burst of dissonant tones startles Dex back to the present. Fiona’s ass had bumped the piano, and it’s enough of a shock that the singer breaks their kiss to laugh. 

“I miss this,” murmurs the blonde when her chuckling fades, and the urgency in the room dissipates a little as she raises a slender hand to brush her knuckles down Dex’s cheek. She lets it keep dropping until her palm rests flat on the brunette’s chest, her fingertips tracing her collarbones at the edge of her tank top. 

Dex has to close her eyes against the rush of emotion that the intimate gesture and words rip from her ribcage. She can’t go down that road. The Dex of today, improved but not perfect, knows that. But the Dex that lived in her skin in the torturous months after she came home…  _ that _ Dex wants to answer Fiona’s siren call with all the overheated devotion she’d once felt, no matter the consequences. 

As a compromise, the PI takes hold of Fiona’s chin and yanks her in for another kiss. The singer doesn’t seem to mind.

When she’s sure her ex has the plot, Dex drops her hands to palm Fiona’s backside, and then she takes hold and lifts, knocking back the piano bench as she rises to standing with the blonde’s impossibly long legs around her waist. She sways there, smiling when Fiona nips her bottom lip, impatient as always. 

The half a year that they’d been together had been a hurricane—drugs, touring, drinking, sex, arrests. The works. Fiona approached all of them, like she did everything, with the fervor of someone who might never see another morning. Back then, that unwavering intensity and enthusiasm for  _ the moment  _ had been the lifeline she held tight, until the day Fiona’s van drove away for her first big tour and never came back. Until now.

So, in the spirit of old times, Dex files away her fretting thoughts, and she walks Fiona over to the massive hotel bed. 

The brunette drags off the black leggings and bikini panties underneath while Fiona shrugs out of her flashy gold jacket and pulls off the leopard print shirt, and then Dex is just looking down at Fiona Fincklebocker again, blonde hair haloed around her head on the dark comforter, pale breasts rising and falling with short, quick breaths. The decade between then and now certainly hasn’t sapped Fiona of her distinctive beauty, her sinewy body all sharp angles and balletic planes. 

Dex kicks off her jeans and rips her tank top over her head, sighing with relief when she falls forward, finally pressing skin to skin against the singer, and it spikes into a choked groan at the first brush of warm wetness against her lower stomach as she grinds her hips down. 

Fiona’s grasping at her wrists, braced on either side of the blonde’s head, and Dex easily resists the tugging as she bends, pressing her lips to Fiona’s shoulder and kissing a path down to a rosy pink nipple. The singer’s back arches, and Dex traces the hardening tip with her tongue. Fiona’s skin tastes exactly like she remembers, and the groans floating from above her are like an old, beloved song.

She shifts to one elbow and moves her other hand down the blonde’s eagerly squirming body. The soft smoothness that greets her fingertips, where she expected stubble or curls, is momentarily distracting. Though Dex has never cared either way, clearly the “team” tasked with keeping Fiona X looking good had spared no expense. 

“Dex,” whines the singer, and the sound is so candied and plaintive that Dex relents. She always does. Her fingers meet silky heat, and Fiona’s head drops back against the comforter on a low moan.

The rest is a heady blend of memory and moment. She plays in Fiona’s flesh like a concertmaster picking up the violin for the first time in years, and Fiona’s panting whines are the enchanting tones that answer her touch exactly as she remembers. 

Smoldering heat rises in her own belly as she rubs firm circles around the singer’s clit, her mouth returning to one rosy nipple and mimicking the movement with her tongue. Fiona’s dripping for her, arousal coating Dex’s palm and soaking the air with obscene, wet noises and their increasingly desperate moans. Pressure bordering on an ache pulls at the PI’s clit, and she slides a leg over one of Fiona’s, seeking relief against the singer’s muscular thigh.

Fiona mutters nonsense to the ceiling, the elegant column of her neck too enticing for Dex to resist as she presses two fingers inside her, easily burying them to the hilt in one firm stroke. Hot wetness pulses around her knuckles, and Fiona starts to buck against her palm when Dex’s teeth sink into the base of her neck. Sucking and licking at the salty skin, the brunette sets the deep, hard pace she knows Fiona likes, and her mind settles in on a singular, essential goal. Trouble with her job, family, and friends fades away, and she bucks her own hips urgently against Fiona’s thigh, her clit throbbing with unreleased pressure. 

“Yes- _ yes, _ Dex, just like that!  _ Fuck, _ yes!” keens the blonde when Dex curls her fingers to drag against the ridged spot on her front wall that never fails to make her sing. 

She’s coated Fiona’s skin in enough of her own arousal that the wet glide is smooth to the point of frustration, and Dex grunts into her hold as she slams her herself down in search of pressure. When she adds a third finger to her quick, forceful thrusts, Fiona cries out, and her spine tightens like a bowstring as her body ripples and grips at Dex’s knuckles. Dex has enough presence of mind as she drives herself towards her own peak to keep pressing her fingertips into the blonde’s swollen front wall, drawing out the orgasm so she can listen to those achingly sweet sounds while she comes. It doesn’t take much more than two, three more hard thrusts against tensing muscle, and Dex lets her eyes squeeze shut when the pressure her lower belly finally explodes, sending tremors and tingles zipping to her fingertips and toes as she groans and bucks through it, until the comforter under their bodies is soaked with their joined release. 

When Dex finally collapses bonelessly into the mattress, panting and letting her fingers slip free of the silken paradise, Fiona’s hand searches across the space for hers. Her slender fingers are warm as they twine with Dex’s, sticky and cooled by the night air. 

“I guess you really needed that,” murmurs Fiona, teasing, in her usual irascible way. 

“Please, you practically broke my hand,” Dex shoots back with a lazy grin. Her body feels light and floaty in the rush of post-orgasm endorphins, and she honestly couldn’t say the singer was wrong. 

The blonde giggles as she rolls over, and Dex sees the dark marks her teeth and lips left along the singer’s neck and across the tops of her breasts. Fiona seems to notice her gaze and says, “It’s okay. That’s what makeup is for. Plus… you know I like it.”

In the morning, Dex tells herself, she’ll be in a better state of mind to remember why this is a bad idea. Amidst the memory of the way Fiona tastes on her tongue, she’ll remember why she forged a different path. The terror of friends overdosing, the physical pain of recovery, freezing nights in the drunk tank… and the way Fiona had no interest in moving past any of that to a more stable, or what the singer might call  _ boring, _ adult life. Dex, on the other hand, had changed, and wanted to continue changing for the better. 

She’ll surely remember that, she tells herself. But tonight, she’s raising no protest as Fiona pushes her onto her back and straddles her hips again, smiling a mischievous smile as Dex’s eyes zero in on the glistening shine between her legs. 

**Author's Note:**

> yell at me on tumblr [@trashyeggroll](https://trashyeggroll.tumblr.com/)


End file.
